As a child from White Rock, North Vancouver was always a big mystery to me. It was fantastically far from my southern kingdom, and although I vaguely realized that we were in North Vancouver when we went skiing, the exact geographical details eluded me (much like they do today). When I got a little older, I braved the treacherous Sea Bus journey with my mom, and together we enjoyed the Lonsdale Quay market under the giant Q, with all its cute little shops and eateries.
I did not give North Vancouver much thought until I met Shane, for whom it was a hometown. Suddenly, I found us regularly crossing either of the bridges onto the North Shore for visits with his family. I became intimately familiar with the roads around the local ICBC as Shane’s dad taught me to drive, eventually leading to me getting my license. I still get kind of anxious driving around the test route, feverishly trying to remember all the tricky signs and rules.
When Shane first floated the idea of us moving to the North Shore, I was not convinced. I loved our downtown flat, our views, our ability to get around without driving. Sure, the streets were a little smelly, and our loft was technically just one large room we constantly both occupied, but that was all good.
Eventually, logic won out, and we moved into Shane’s childhood home, where in the pantry you can still find markings as their parents recorded him and his brother getting taller. I am proud to say that my height has now also been recorded on that wall, and I have apparently not grown since 2017.
The dock where I photographed Hannah and her family is the same one on which a couple years back Shane and I celebrated New Year’s Eve with a handful of strangers. I remember us walking quickly in the frosty December weather, and finding a good spot along the edge of the dock. We wore our Christmas cracker hats, and toasted with champagne, and watched the fireworks across the water. This northern shore is still new to me, but with each new memory, I put down more roots.
